


The Case of the Mysterious Sketch Pad

by WhatBecomesOfYou



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 09:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatBecomesOfYou/pseuds/WhatBecomesOfYou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt finds a mysterious sketch pad, filled with drawings of his face. He plays a little bit of Nancy Drew to find out who's behind it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Mysterious Sketch Pad

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rainbowkitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowkitten/gifts).



When you stripped him right down to it, Kurt was someone who just wanted to be loved.

And that insecurity was why he cloaked himself in the shadows, built up the walls around him, so that no one could see how desperately he wanted to be loved. It wasn’t even want, it was a desire. He had a desire to be desired, thought of as a sexual being, one with wants and desires and lusts.

And he found it in the most unassuming of places: a sketch pad, carelessly left askew in the choir room one day before rehearsal. It must have been left there from the last rehearsal, he thought. He picked it up out of idle curiosity, thumbed through the pages. There was detail poured into every stroke of the pencil. Loving detail, even, as if the artist was trying to caress the contours of their artwork through their chosen medium. Every drawing was similar: it was a study of his face. They captured the mischievous glint in his eye, the slight lift to the corner of his lips. They captured him, body and soul, in the confines of a paper and pencil.

The only mystery was: who was the artist?

He turned over the pad in his hands, attempting to see who it belonged to. As if everyone walked around with their possessions carefully labeled: “property of: whoever.” Not even hearts came that way, although they could, if they tried. His heart was property of no one but himself, because only he could trust himself not to hurt himself. But maybe, this artist - whoever it was - could see through him. Cut through the layers.

He set the sketchpad back down and stepped away from it. Whoever it was was talented, and showed a lot of promise as an artist if they chose to go that route in life.

Now it was time to figure out who it was.

* * *

The first step to figuring out who the mystery artist was was to observe. He attempted to pay attention during the next New Directions rehearsal, as Puck did a solo to a Springsteen song, but no one was idly sketching. Instead, they were all tapping their feet and swaying to the beat of the song, caught up in the rapture of it all. Of course, maybe Puck was the artist. Even the Beast from Beauty and the Beast could appreciate the finer things in life, after all. He couldn’t really reconcile the two images in his head, that of his former tormentor and that of the tortured sketch artist, but he figured it could be a possibility.

So when Mike and Mr. Schuester were talking about the choreography for regionals, he craned his neck to see where Puck’s attention was focused. Right. He should have known that Puck would go for ogling a girl over sketching. Should have known all along.

It was still a possibility. Just much less of one.

He contemplated asking one of his girls if they knew anything about the mysterious artist, maybe witnessed something at a previous rehearsal or overheard someone talking about a new-found interest in pencil art, but Rachel was entirely wrapped up in Finn’s embrace, and Mercedes was focused on finding the perfect song to suit her voice. So he was left to Nancy Drew this one out on his own. The Case of the Mysterious Sketch Pad. Not one of Carolyn Keene’s better works, he had to figure, although he could compete with Nancy for being fabulous any day. And at least she had Ned, and he had no one, so she might even be ahead of him in that one.

He never saw the sketch pad left carelessly alone in the choir room again. Somehow, it managed to slip its way out as easily as it found its way in. He never noticed who picked it up and carried it out under their arm.

He’d almost forgotten about it, if he was honest about it. Even though it was easy to be flattered by the evident skill and the careful attention to detail. He wondered who it was that had such a clear mental image of his face that they could draw it from memory as if he was standing before them. It was almost as if his heart was on his sleeve and he wasn’t even aware of the fact.

And then it happened.

He was walking down the hallway one afternoon, and saw it out of the corner of his eye. It it, as in, the sketch pad. He knew that not every sketch pad was unique in all the world, but he had mentally cataloged its particulars in the back of his mind, and he knew: this was the one that his artist used.

And then he looked up.

And he saw that Sam Evans was the one holding the pad, holding a pencil that was hovering above the pad, making quick sketch marks across the page. He made his way over, as if he was laser-focused on this and this alone.

“Sam,” he said, “hi.”

“Uh, hi, Kurt,” Sam said, closing the pad and setting down his pencil on top of it, looking up at Kurt. “What’s up?”

“You - _you’re_ the one with the sketch pad,” Kurt said, almost as if giving voice to the words was to make it real. “I saw your work. You’re really talented. Maybe you should consider being an artist, you know, if singing doesn’t work out for you.”

“Really?” Sam said, beaming. And then, almost as if the reality of what Kurt said sunk in, he slumped his shoulders forward. “Oh. You saw my artwork.”

“Yeah, I was expecting maybe a few more spaceships or aliens or whatever it is that is in that Avatar movie you like so much,” he said. “Not so much with the faces.” _My faces_ , he mentally amended. “I mean, as I said, you’re really talented.”

“You saw my artwork,” Sam repeated, almost as if he was dumbfounded by the reality of the statement. “You saw my artwork.”

“Yeah, I did,” Kurt said. “And I liked it. So.”

“You weren’t freaked out by the fact that you were every page?” Sam said. He opened it up and flipped through the pages, as if to prove a point. Kurt leaned over and looked at the pages as they flipped by. It was almost like someone had made a flip book of every emotion that he could feel, and most of them involved that slight little half-smile that he was so famous for. And that someone was Sam.

“I was flattered, not ‘freaked out,’ to borrow your words,” he said. “I - I inspire your art?”

“Yeah, Kurt, you’re kind of the most inspirational guy I know,” he said, biting his lip and looking up at him. “You’re talented in so many different areas and you know what you want in life and you know how you’re going to get it. I admire that about you."

Kurt had to snort. “You apparently don’t know me as well as you think you do, if you think that,” he said. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

Sam shook his head. “I think you don’t know yourself as well as you think you do,” he said, standing up and setting the sketch pad behind him. “You try and hide it as best as you can, because you’re ambitious and you don’t want to show weakness, but you -” he bit his lip and stepped forward. He cupped Kurt’s chin in the dip of his hands and smiled at him. “You want this,” he said.

 _Damn_ , Sam was perceptive. He gulped and tried to show courage through his eyes, even if his heart was fluttering at a thousand miles a minute and it wouldn’t slow down even if he wanted it to. “Yeah, I do,” he said, exhaling on a soft breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t real. Things like this didn’t happen to him.

And then it happened.

Sam’s soft, supple lips descended to meet his, and he reached out for Sam, instinctively moving his body in closer to his embrace. The moment their lips met, it was as if there had never been anything else except in that moment. They meshed their lips against each other, and Sam wrapped his hand around the back of Kurt’s neck to draw him in closer, and it was like floating on a little cloud of bliss.

As they broke apart from the kiss, Kurt leaned his forehead against Sam’s and smiled at him. “That was -” he started to say. “I can’t even find the words.”

“If I can take your words away with one kiss, imagine what else I could do,” Sam said. He winked at Kurt and grinned, and Kurt only felt the butterflies kick in stronger. This boy did not know what he did to his heart. The feelings could only grow more intense, not less, from here on in.

“Maybe next time, I’ll model for you,” Kurt said, a burst of confidence shooting through him. “So that, you know, you don’t have to rely on your memory next time.”

“I’d like that,” Sam said. “Maybe I could come over tomorrow after school? Unless you have other plans.”

Even if he _did_ have other plans, which he totally didn't, they suddenly seemed so much less important than the prospect of being alone in his bedroom with Sam. “I;d like that,” he said, echoing Sam’s words back to him.

“It’s a date.”

A date? Was that what they were calling it? And why were those butterflies back in full formation, hellbent on destroying his sanity with every flutter of their wing?

* * *

 Sam knocked at Kurt’s door the next afternoon, sketch pad in tow. Kurt let him in with a hand wave. “I made cookies last night knowing that you were coming over today,” Kurt said. “Dad asked me why I was baking like a maniac.”

 “And? Did you tell him that you had a boy coming over?”

“I may have said that I had plans tomorrow that involved potential cookie eating,” he said. “I think he interpreted that to mean that Rachel, Mercedes and I would be watching a Drop Dead Diva marathon, but -” He ushered Sam up the stairs and into his room, before he shut the door. “The cookies are over -”

Sam’s lips were on his as soon as the door clicked shut. “Sorry,” he whispered between frantic kisses. “I couldn’t resist.”

 "Couldn’t resist away, then,” Kurt said. It felt good to be like this. Wanted. Desired. The lust that he saw in Sam’s eyes was unmistakable, though. “Did you just get me up here in my room alone so you can have your wanton way with me?”

“I really do intend to sketch you,” he said. “But I think I’ve done enough versions of your face to satisfy an entire portrait gallery.” He stuck the eraser end of his pencil in his mouth and studied the array before him. “Lay on your bed,” he said.

Kurt did as he was told, laid down and propped the side of his head up with one hand. “Like this?” he asked. “Or more like this?” He fell back against the pillow and looked up at Sam.

“The first way,” Sam said. “Makes it a little bit easier to draw without hovering above you.”

There was an unmistakable come-on in that sentence. He could hear it, without even having to try. Maybe Sam _wanted_ to be hovering above him - doing things to him that he could have only dreamed about someone doing to him. He flipped onto his side and batted his eyelashes coquettishly at Sam. “Draw me,” he said. “Have your wicked drawing way with me, Samuel.”

Sam flicked his eyes up. “Take off your shirt,” he said. “I - I want to draw you without a shirt.”

What did it look like, that he went around without his shirt all the time? He wasn’t built like Sam was, with miles of spectacular abs that he could only imagine were strong and firm to the touch. But the slight hitch in his voice was almost adorable in its awkward earnestness. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “If it’d help -” He cast his arms over his head and pulled his t-shirt up and over the top of his head, before setting it down to his side. “There. Now, if you take yours off, we’ll be on an even playing field again.”

Yep. There were definitely miles of spectacular abs there. He felt his mouth grow increasingly dry as he fumbled with the hem of his shirt, before he cast it aside and onto the bed behind him. He had to fight off the urge to cross his arms over his chest and hide from Sam's gaze, but as he looked up at Sam, he noticed that Sam's eyes were ducked, and the pencil was flying across the page.

“Don't do that with your arms,” Sam said, almost as if he could read his mind. “I like you just as you are.”

Kurt bit his lip and relaxed into a pose that he felt was somewhat reminiscent of Kate Winslet in _Titanic_ , minus the spectacular diamond necklace, and, you know, the fact that he wasn't completely naked for Sam-slash-Leonardo di Caprio. “Like this?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, and the pencil continued flowing across the page. “See, you could be a model.”

“You're being too kind.”

“My mountain of sketches of your face tell no lies.”

“Yeah, and I didn't actually model for any of those. I think you used my yearbook picture for some of them. In other words, you used the picture where I looked like a raccoon.”

“If you looked like a raccoon, you were a very sexy raccoon,” Sam said, scrunching his nose up. God, how did Kurt never notice any of this before? Was he too wrapped up in other things to realize what was before him this whole time? “Besides, I have a really good memory for faces. Especially ones like yours.”

“Mmmm,” Kurt said, humming and drifting off into a faint land of his imagination. He let his eyes drift shut and he focused his attention on holding the pose as best as he could.

And then – he felt something soft and warm against his lips. His eyes shot open, and he saw that Sam was kissing him, kneading his lips softly against his own. “You looked so content,” Sam said, “that I hated to disturb you, but you – the drawing's done.” He held out the sketch pad to Kurt, and Kurt took it into his hands and he had to suppress a gasp.

“How long was I out?” he said, tracing his fingers over the charcoal and lead outlines of his shoulder. “This is – you're _really_ talented. But then again, I already knew that.”

Sam ducked his head. “Longer than you'd think, but maybe not as long as you might think. I just...I draw really fast, okay? Especially when I'm inspired.”

“If you're trying to make me blush, you succeeded,” Kurt said, feeling the first rays of pink spread across his cheeks like fire. “Can I keep this Sam Evans original, for that day when you become a world-renowned artist and I can proudly hang this in my foyer and say that rising artist Sam Evans drew a sketch of me one day when I was 17? Or do you want to keep it?”

“Well, if you really want it, I'll let you have it,” Sam said, taking the sketch pad back from Kurt's hands and carefully ripping the page out. With a scribble and a flourish, he signed his name at the bottom and handed the page to Kurt. “There. An autographed, one of a kind original artwork by me. Don't lose it.”

“I'll treasure it. Really.” Kurt threw his arms around Sam and embraced him tightly. “You sure you're not going to miss it, though?”

Sam shook his head and smiled. “Not when I think I have the real thing now. Unless this whole past day and a half is just me imagining things.”

“Not imagining things, I just didn't realize that it was something that you wanted. Until I saw -”

“Yeah, I know. I didn't exactly make it obvious.” Sam clucked his tongue lightly and gave Kurt a lopsided smile. “Until I did, that is. And Kurt?”

“Yeah?”

“I may have to consider portrait painting as my next artistic thing with you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sam bit back a smirk as he kissed Kurt again. “But I don't think you're going to want to hang this painting where just _anyone_ can see it...”

“Is that a promise or a threat?” Kurt arched his eyebrow and dragged Sam down to the bed next to him.

“Maybe a little bit of both."

 

- _fini_ -


End file.
